


Uptown Boy

by Tarma_Hartley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Based on a video by random girlyness and used with her permission!, Comedy, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Funny, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Silly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 17:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12512792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarma_Hartley/pseuds/Tarma_Hartley
Summary: Gregory Lestrade is head over heels for Mycroft Holmes and isn't sure how Mycroft, himself, feels about him.





	Uptown Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [random girlyness](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=random+girlyness).
  * Inspired by [Uptown Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/332484) by random girlyness. 



> This fic is based on an AMAZING AMAZING AMAZING vid by random girlyness and is used with her kind permission! THANKS! ^)^
> 
> The link to the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2fWHQdGoBs
> 
> The fic itself follows the video pretty closely although I have taken some artistic liberties in order to flesh out the story. The title itself is also the title of the vid.
> 
> I apologize for this being so late! My father passed away June 12th, I was busy for awhile and then terribly sick from September 25th to the 28th off and on until I ended up going to the ER (Sept. 28th) for a little over four hours. Diagnosis: hiatal hernia. Ugh. Thankfully, its small and can be controlled with diet and exercise. I don't need surgery so that's good, at least!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little fic! more to come in future!
> 
> I may change it at some point; always room for improvement!

_July 23rd_  
_New Scotland Yard_  
_10:30 A.M._  
  
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stood in the foyer of New Scotland Yard, his arms crossed over his chest and nodded as Mycroft Holmes postulated on a point of interest.  
  
The elder Holmes brother had come to see him earlier that morning at the Yard, wishing to talk with Lestrade about his meeting with the Prime Minister and Home Secretary. It wasn't a question of national security or he wouldn't be here talking with him about it so openly.  
  
_It was curious,_ Lestrade thought, his eyes never once leaving Mycroft as he continued to talk, _how much a person can worm his way into your heart..._  
  
He was a copper of the old school, always had been, really, although he was open to new ways of detection and was one of the many reasons that he tolerated the antics of Mycroft's younger brother, Sherlock.  
  
As much as he hated to admit it (sometimes), Sherlock was indeed a valuable member of the Yard although his antics, and ways of detecting, had struck a sour note with his colleague Sally Donovan and Anderson, one of New Scotland Yard's forensic team.  
  
_He's a royal pain in the ass but, without him, we'd have not solved as many of the cases we have up until this point._ He sighed inwardly. _I remember how much trouble Donovan had with it..._ He well remembered the explosion that occurred when he told her of his interest in Sherlock's elder brother.  
  
He chuckled softly as he remembered...  
**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
  
_Six months earlier..._  
  
_January 23rd_  
_New Scotland Yard_  
_Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's Office_  
_10:55 A.M._  
  
_Lestrade had been sitting at his desk contemplating something when his colleague, Sgt. Sally Donovan, had stormed into his office earlier that morning, slamming the door hard behind her._  
  
_Lestrade's eyebrow had raised but he said nothing while she exploded in rage, complaining about Sherlock's latest round of antics-he couldn't help the loud sigh and rolling of his eyes when she'd begun her latest round of complaints-when he had cut her off, saying that he didn't want to discuss it._  
  
_Taken slightly aback, she continued her harangue but he again cut her off much to her amazement and rising fury. He flatly told her that, regardless of her feelings to the contrary, without Sherlock they wouldn't have solved this most perplexing of cases and a brutal murderer would have gone free if he hadn't found the gun that linked this man to all of the shooting deaths that had occurred._  
  
_She hadn't a word to say to that-indeed, she couldn't argue the point-so she fell into a sullen silence, biting her bottom lip. The air was thick with unspoken tension for some time until Lestrade broke it and effectively changed the subject._  
  
No time like the present.. _._  
  
_“You know Sherlock's elder brother Mycroft, don't you, Sergeant?”_  
  
_Her eyebrow raised but she nodded._  
  
_“Who hasn't?” She made a sour face. “They call him “The Man of Ice” and I've also heard it said that he IS the British Government.” She huffed with disapproval. “Wouldn't want to put that much power in any one man's hands, particularly a Holmes!”_  
  
_He chuckled and nodded, a small smile playing about his lips._  
  
_“So they do.”_  
  
_“What has he got to do with anything?” She couldn't keep the irritated, cross note out of her voice. “I don't see what the point is.”_  
  
_Lestrade's brow furrowed slightly but he answered mildly enough, his left hand toying with a small stapler._  
  
_“We...I'm... interested in dating him.” He looked at her, Donovan's face crumpling in shock. “I thought that you should know.”_  
  
_Her eyes widened in stunned surprised as the news finally impressed itself into her brain._  
  
_“Wait... you're...interested? In...dating?” she repeated stupidly, not trusting herself to speak. “You want to... DATE him?! Mycroft...HOLMES?! Are you mad?!”_  
  
_He nodded and then sat back calmly as all hell broke loose..._  
**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
  
He smiled to himself as he thought of their exchange six months earlier. When she had at last wound down, he had made it abundantly, and irrevocably, clear that whatever her feelings were on the subject of Sherlock, he _was_ interested in pursuing a relationship with Mycroft and she had better resign herself to that fact.  
  
_She certainly has a strong pair of lungs given how many constables came running when she started yelling._  
  
He'd seen Mycroft off and then walked back to his office, sitting down at his desk, his hand boxed under his chin. His ind travelled back once again to the exchange with Donovan: She'd stared at him in stunned silence for some time, her mouth working but no words emerging. She couldn't believe what she had just heard but the stern expression on her boss' face made it _very_ clear to her that he had _meant_ what he'd just said and, whatever it was that she had started to say, she choked it back and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  
  
Since then, she had become resigned to it and even seemed to have made her peace with it although she still had that odd look on her face whenever Mycroft came round to visit, which had been quite often these past few months.  
  
_It's certainly put a cat amongst the pigeons._ He couldn't help but laugh when he thought of it. _Ah, Mycroft..._  
  
He knew that the scuttlebutt around the Yard was that he was interested in Mycroft but no one knew exactly how Mycroft, himself, felt and neither did Lestrade. He hoped hoped that he would also return his interest since there wasn't anything shady about it; Sherlock was on New Scotland Yard's payroll as a consulting detective, this was true, but Mycroft _wasn't_ and _that_ settled the issue as far as he was concerned.  
  
Lestrade sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. _What are the chances of that likely happening? Not good, let's be honest; we're from two very different worlds.I'm a copper, he's a politician. I'm a common man, he's rich. I go to Smiley's pub, he goes to the Ritz. What do I have that he would want?_  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Donovan and Constable Yates and very soon were taken up with the intricacies of their latest case.  
  
**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
  
_July 23 rd_  
_Mycroft Holmes Residence_  
_London, England_  
_11:30 A.M._  
  
Mycroft Holmes sighed as his mother continued her harangue, nodding when necessary and silently wishing she would get to the point before going back to his own private thoughts. He unconsciously caressed the crystal brandy snifter that stood on the table in front of him with the fingertips of his left hand and wondered how long it would be before she got to whatever point she was leading up to.  
  
_Although I think that I have an idea of what she's going to lecture me on._ He felt the corners of his mouth twitch. _God knows we've had this conversation often enough over the years..._  
  
“You _need_ to be more active in society, Mycroft,” she said, her hazel eyes narrowing as she looked down on him, her voice thick with disapproval. “You've been away _far_ too long and-”  
  
_I knew it!_  
  
“I _do_ work, Mother,” he interrupted wearily, pressing the fingertips of his right hand against his forehead, feeling the headache coming back that had been plaguing him throughout the morning, “and I _don't_ always have time to come to these nonsensical _events_ that you seem so intent on dragging me to.”  
  
She sighed loudly, crossing her arms over her chest. He knew that posture and he also knew, from the thousand and six arguments that they had had over the years, what was coming next.  
  
_Here it comes..._  
  
“Mycroft, you _are_ the son of the Ambassador and it is up to _you_ to honour _that_ commitment! What would your father say?!”  
  
_And there it is._  
  
“Oh, I don't know that, Mother,” he replied flippantly, waving his hand in the air. “ _Sherlock_ would be much _more_ capable than I in that respect. Not that _he_ cares for such trivialities to begin with. As for what Father might say, he would remark that societal events were silly affairs and he would rather not attend if he could at all help it.”  
  
_God, I wish that she would drop the subject!_  
  
She stared at him and he couldn't help but feel a small barb of satisfaction. This continuing conversation was tiresome, having been repeated numerous times over the years. He knew that she loved both of them dearly-and they loved her in return-but she refused to budge on this issue for some reason and he was mystified as to the reason.  
  
“Sherlock cares even _less_ than _you_ , Mycroft dear, if we're honest.” Her voice was thick with disapproval.  
  
A smirk touched Mycroft's lips.  
  
“Even better....” he murmured softly, chuckling at the look his mother gave him.  
  
“Really, Mycroft, I don't understand _why_ you're so recalcitrant about your social obligations.” She gave him a pointed look that he did his best to ignore; he couldn't help but wonder _why_ she continued to insist on _this_ point when both he and Sherlock had made their positions on the subject very clear. “Just the other day, that fine Lord Callister was asking after you; I daresay that _he_ has _some_ interest in _you_ that _you_ would do well to cultivate.”  
  
“Really Mother,” Mycroft said in a bored tone while seething within, “I can't imagine for the life of me why that reprobate is even slightly interested in me.”  
  
_I would have thought you would have better taste than THAT!_ He shuddered, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch in distaste. To cover his discomfiture somewhat, he hurriedly picked up his snifter and took a large swallow of the amber liquid within. His mother noticed the face that he made at once, her mouth pressing into a thin, angry line; to his infinite relief, however, she had the grace to remain silent. At least on the subject of Lord William Callister.  
  
_I wouldn't pair up with_ that _creature if he were the last man on earth!_  
  
Silence reigned between them for a few moments until she broke it with a loud sigh. Mycroft's eyes rolled upward at the sound, glaring at her before taking another sip of his brandy.  
  
_I wish that she would simply leave me alone on this subject. We've had this argument so many times its getting to be a real sore spot between us. I'm quite tired of this coming up._ He sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly as she spoke of other people that he either didn't care about or he barely knew, his mind beginning to wander although he appeared to be paying attention. _I wonder what she would think if she knew that I have a_ definite _interest in Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard..._ He couldn't help but smile at the thought of the handsome, silver-haired Yarder, his fingers slowly trailing around the snifter.  
  
“You _need_ to start reconnecting with your old acquaintances,” she went on, ignoring the look that Mycroft gave her, his eyes rolling up to look at the ceiling. “I've heard that Lady Chelsea has been asking after you recently.”

Mycroft stroked his chin thoughtfully. _Really? And why would that be, I wonder?_ A small smile crossed his lips. _Perhaps her brother has been asking after me? That's the only explanation that makes sense at this juncture._ He coughed slightly. _However..._

 “Has she now?” _That_ was interesting, he had to admit. He'd been childhood friends with the present Earl of Bainbridge, her father, and had even attended Cambridge with him. He was also friends with the Earl's wife, Countess Diana Shepherd, and had gotten to know his eldest daughter quite well over the years.  
  
A petite blonde woman with sparkling violet eyes and a wit to match, the thirty-six year-old had made quite a name for herself in the art world and he was pleased to hear that she owned her own gallery. She had, at one time, been interested in him in other as just an old family friend but he had politely, though firmly, declined; since then, they had become firm friends.  
  
_I can't imagine what she wants with me, unless its just to catch up. How long has it been since we last chatted?_  
  
Almost as if she had read his thoughts, his mother provided the answer.  
  
“She's opening another gallery in Chelsea and would like the honour of your presence.” Her eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth to say something and, upon seeing the expression on her face, closed it at once, shaking his head. “I have _already_ accepted on _your_ behalf.”  
  
_Mother..._ He groaned inwardly, rolling his eyes, acutely aware that his mother was still staring at him, her eyes shooting hazel sparks, her arms crossed over her chest. _Enough is enough._  
  
“Well, Mycroft?” She tapped her foot impatiently on the black-and-white checked marble floor, that piercing gaze directed squarely on her scapegrace oldest son.  
  
“As you wish, Mother,” he quipped dryly but she glared at him, not in the least convinced by his words.  
  
“See that you attend.” She took a step forward, slapping down a pamphlet on the table between them. “It's at 8 P.M. November 5 th.” She paused a moment, honeyed venom dripping in her words. "I'm sure that you can find _some_ time to do so."  
  
“As you wish,” was all he said in reply, indicating his desire to end the discussion. She huffed once before she turned and walked toward the door, opening it and slamming it the door shut pointedly behind her.  
  
He stared at the wall for awhile after she'd left, sighing once more as he picked up the snifter, finishing what was left before he put it down again. _As If I need even more complications in my life right now, the last thing I need in my life is my mother dictating to me about my love life_  
  
Mycroft sighed, his fingertips sliding around the circumference of the glass, his expression thoughtful. _I can't imagine for the life of me why it's so important to her for me to attend this function or even why Mother makes such a fuss about my attendance in the first place._ He sighed and shrugged, taking a large swallow before placing the snifter back on top of the table. _She's got the burr under her saddle, that much is sure..._  
  
He sat back, boxing his fist underneath his chin, his other hand lying on the table, Thoughts of Gregory Lestrade had been more and more frequent lately and he couldn't help but wonder why. The handsome Yarder seemed to be permanently etched in his mind, being at the forefront of his mind from the moment he woke up in the morning, at work and the last thing before bed.  
  
He drummed his fingertips on the formica tabletop rhythmically. _I'm behaving like a lovestruck adolescent,_ he admonished himself sternly, unboxing his hand from underneath his chin, sighing as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. _I have no idea how he feels and the last thing I want is to barge in somewhere where I'm not welcome. He hasn't been adverse to my coming over to see him as I have been as of late and he seems open to the possibility of a relationship. He isn't seeing anyone right now and it seems like the perfect time to ask him for a date. The question is: would he accept? And that's where the uncertainty lies._  
  
Mycroft shrugged away that uncomfortable thought and sat in silence for a time, smiling softly at the pleasant thoughts of Gregory Lestrade that were flitting into his mind until he was rudely interrupted by the shrill ringing of his cellphone.  
  
_What the hell?! Who could be calling me?!_ Annoyed, he fished in his pocket and pulled it out, flipping it open and pressing the “talk” button.  
  
“Yes?” His tone was terse and his eyebrow lifted in mixed surprise and annoyance at the sound of the voice on the other end, the last voice he had expected, or _wanted_ , to hear.  
  
_Bloody hell!_  
  
“I thought I told you not to call this number and I had thought that I made it perfectly clear that I had _no_ desire to see you again.” He waited in silence for a few minutes before interrupting, in a cold tone, “I'm not interested in either you or your excuses and I do not want to hear from you again. Which I thought that I had made perfectly clear three months ago. Good day.”  
  
He stabbed the “talk” button savagely with his thumb, a dark scowl on his face as he put his phone away, taking deep breaths in order to calm himself.  
  
_Damn the man to the lowest of the nine Hells! What the hell was he thinking, calling me when I made it perfectly clear that I wanted nothing more to do with him! What is so difficult to understand?!  
_**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX** _  
  
_ 1 P.M.  
  
He growled as he stood up, pushing the chair back so hard that it scraped across the kitchen floor, wincing slightly at the shrill, grating sound before he started to pace up and down the marble floor. His mouth was set in a hard line, his thoughts whirling over one another in rapid succession.  
  
_Is it too much to ask that I remain in control of my own life?! I'm an adult, for God's sake; I can make my own decisions in both my personal and professional lives and I certainly don't need my mother, or anyone else, dictating me on how to run them! Why doesn't she run amok in Sherlock's life for a change and leave me alone? Because she knows perfectly well that Sherlock would tell her where to get off; maybe I should try the same myself the next time she starts in on me about this!_  
  
For some time he paced, his teeth gritted and his hands clenched into fists as he continued to march up and down until he had at last worked out his anger and was able to calm himself. He took deep breaths, closing his eyes as he felt the irritation of the morning, and the anger concerning his mother's continuing interference in his life, slip slowly away _._ He stood there in silence for some time, his hand lying lightly on the curved top of the rosewood chair _,_ staring out of the large picture window on the other side of the room.  
  
When did my life suddenly become so complicated? Why does Chelsea want to see me and why is Mother so damnably determined to insist on my attending these silly soirees in the first place?  
  
He was mulling over these questions when his cellphone rang again; grimacing, he reached into his pocket and pulled it out, flipping it open nonchalantly.  
  
_Who's calling me now?_ He sighed as he looked down at the name that appeared on the screen: _10 Downing Street._  
  
He shook his head, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. _Lovely. I suppose I should take the call even though I'm damned tempted not to._  
  
"Yes, Prime Minister, how may I be of service?"  
  
_And there goes the rest of my day..._ He sighed, raking his fingers through his ginger hair. _Perfect._  
  
He talked to the Prime Minister for some time and, once he had hung up, he couldn't help a moment of irritated reflection as he looked once again out of the picture window.  
  
_Does Gregory ever have days like this, I wonder? Surely he must._  
  
He sighed once again before he turned, grabbed his tweed jacket from the coat rack, picked up his keys from the ceramic dish on the table by the door and his umbrella from its place in the cylindrical stand beside the table on the left hand side, and walked out onto the porch, slamming the door behind him.  
  
_When did my life get so complicated again?_ he thought once again as he placed the key in the lock, twisting it until he heard the soft "click" of the bolt sliding home _. And how does Gregory feel about about this?_  
  
That thought preoccupied him as he walked down the front steps and he was no nearer an answer when he'd at last arrived at the Prime Minister's residence for their meeting than he was when he had started. The same thought kept nagging at him throughout the next few hours until he'd arrived back home at 10:30 that evening _,_ dropping exhausted into the loveseat in the living room, his coat tossed casually on the chair opposite. He rubbed his tired eyes with impatient fingers, feeling that nagging headache he'd gotten slightly rid of earlier in the day coming back.  
  
_Just my luck,_ he groused inwardly as he forced himself to stand, stumbling to the bathroom to get a bottle of aspirin from the cabinet above the sink, staring into his haggard reflection in its mirrored front as he did so before closing it again. He opened the bottle, shook out two onto his palm and popped them into his mouth, filling a glass with water and taking a sip. _Just my bloody luck..._  
  
He slowly made his way into his bedroom, undressing quickly before he literally fell into bed, sleep claiming him the moment his head hit the pillow.

 


End file.
